


Our Over-Hasty Marriage

by peristeronic



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hamlet being Hamlet, I don't care that they're literally murderers, I love them okay, Infidelity, Middle Aged Characters, Past Infidelity, Weddings, grown adults in love, let them have this, lots of fluff, thankfully Polonius doesn't get to speak in this one, you can just guess what he said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peristeronic/pseuds/peristeronic
Summary: Everything must be in accordance with the traditions of Denmark and with the dignity the crown commands. There must be nothing unseemly about it.It’s unseemly how much she’s smiling.





	Our Over-Hasty Marriage

The wedding is modest and subdued, as it must be. Though it must also be imbued with the right pomp and circumstance. It is a rushed job, with barely two weeks dedicated to preparation. But they must avoid any appearance of being _furtive_.

If it would make things any easier, Gertrude would be content to be married in a broom closet. All that matters is that the marriage is legal and binding.  Unopposed by any member of the privy council. Approved of by all the nobility of Denmark. Blessed by the archbishop, who presides over the whole ceremony, so that she and Claudius can be married in God’s eyes.

If He can really see into her soul, Gertrude thinks, then He should strike her down where she stands. Not let her marry her first husband’s murderer, the man with whom she broke those earlier wedding vows. But no lightning bolts crash through the vaulted ceiling to smite her or Claudius. Somehow they’re still alive.      

Everything must be in accordance with the traditions of Denmark and with the dignity the crown commands. There must be nothing unseemly about it. 

It’s unseemly how much she’s smiling.

The first smile rises from the effervescence in her chest as she kneels before the altar. For a second she can’t even recognize the sensation that might be termed _delight_ as it rushes up through her body like champagne bubbles, lighter than air. She feels ridiculous. She feels young and girlish, as if she wasn’t a full-grown woman with a son just turned twenty. She ducks her head to hide her face from the archbishop and is able to master herself before he bids them rise.

When he bids them take hands, she looks straight into Claudius’ eyes and sees a light in them she has never seen before. This time the difficulty of forcing herself to keep her composure is compounded by the fact that he is trying not to smile back at her. When has she ever seen him smile at her without echoing that smile?

The wedding feast makes her fret more than the ceremony. It must a delicate balance of delight and dole. There must be wine and meat for the guests. There must be music. But this must not be one of those revelries in which the band will strike up a jig and the ale will flow until everyone is dancing and Polonius is slumped in a corner, drunk and snoring.

For an entertainment, a stately masque is performed for the king and queen. It is another sort of blessing, this time from the mouths of personified Virtues. It is as much an oath of fealty as anything else. _The king is dead. Long live the king._

As they are seated at the banquet table, raised above the other tables on a dais, Gertrude looks to her son. Hamlet’s expression is as black as his doublet. He won’t look up at the dais. When, Gertrude wonders, will he forgive her for this? In time, she tells herself. In weeks, months, even a year. She can give him as much time as he needs.

But she’s been in love with Claudius for twenty years, and she cannot wait any longer to be his lawful wife.

Across the table, Ophelia is watching Hamlet. She sits on the edge of her chair, looking skittish as a doe. Laertes touches her shoulder. Polonius delivers a speech of great tediousness followed by a dozen toasts. To the king, to the queen, to their union, to Denmark, to the prince, to anyone else he can think of.

And after every toast, everyone in the hall—minus Hamlet—raises his glass to drink, and soon enough the wine imbibed begins to add up. An hour after the masque, voices are louder and lips are looser. As the evening wears on, the celebration becomes less and less restrained. Dancing breaks out to the music of the fiddle and the tabor. Forgetting her son and forgetting her first husband and forgetting to be afraid, Gertrude relaxes in her chair as the wine warms her up and she feels like a new-married maid.

Claudius takes her hand in his as it rests on the table. He runs his thumb over the back of her hand and his smile is soft, as is hers. Her happiness curls up in her belly that a cat in the sunshine. For once there is truly no need to grasp, to desperately clutch, to cling to each other with the knowledge that private moments are to be carefully rationed out. To try to drink each other in as if trying to drink enough to last through the desert. They are safe now as they never were before—not even in the warm, quiet moments in Claudius’ bed when King Hamlet was off in Norway and they were a little more daring than usual. Even then they knew they were not safe.

His eyes glitter as he raises her fingers to his lips.     

When they rise from the table, they bid their guests a good night. One brassy voice throws out a ribald joke, and then someone else is emboldened by his example. Something about the benefits of marrying widows and something about the little perks of authority...

“God give you good e’en! You have been long enough drinking our wine!” Claudius calls out with the laughing dismissal that is the only way to discourage jokes of that sort. Gertrude flushes, feeling the eyes on her. There must have been some mark that made her look hasty and over-eager. She is grateful when she and Claudius have left the hall.

They go first to their separate apartments. Being unpinned by her maid is a relief. Shedding her gown and shaking down her hair feels like shedding a snakeskin. How an adder must itch before the skin is sloughed off. Her maid is still folding her clothes when Claudius comes into the room and for a second Gertrude’s heart stops before she remembers. He hasn’t betrayed the secret—she is allowed to have this man in her room. Still her cheeks go red and she stammers out her “good night” to the servant. Then an impulse changes her mind and she strides over to Claudius in three long steps, kissing him full on the lips so the maid can see. Gertrude lets the kiss linger as the maid closes the door behind her.

And then a laugh comes bubbling out of her and Claudius hooks his arm around her waist and buries his face in her neck and laughs, too.

“God, but I do love thee,” he says, his voice suddenly rough.

He presses kisses down her neck to her collarbone and her fingers tangle in his hair as she smiles. When he glances up, her mouth finds his in an instant, eager. Her other hand goes to his chest, pushing him back toward the bed.

(It was always Claudius’ bed they used when they were alone. When she was with the king, she shared the king’s bed. Her bed was never used.)

And then, when Claudius has fallen back onto the bed and pulled Gertrude on top, their kisses gradually grow less urgent. There is no rush. Each knows the other’s body as well as they know the other’s heart. They fit against each other well. Claudius gently pushes Gertrude’s hair back over her shoulder to see her face.

“And are you content with your new husband?” he asks.

“Need you ask that?” She laces her fingers through his. “I did not need the priest to tell me to love you.”

“Indeed, I think you came to love me against his wishes.”

She can feel his laugh through his chest.

“But perhaps kisses are sweeter when lawful,” she says. She presses a kiss to his lips as if to test the theory.

“Perhaps,” he says with a smile. He repeats the experiment.

“Are you content with your wife?” she asks.

“My wife,” he repeats, quietly, as if jealously guarding the words. “My wife makes me a happy man.”

“And my new husband is a better man than I ever hoped to marry.” She rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

           


End file.
